Hewmor
by Tuume
Summary: Freaks inside the Circus all, who's the vilest clown of all? One shot featuring an original character.


**Hewmor**

A one-shot featuring an original character I designed. He's inspired by a great book: The Pilo Family Circus. Enjoy and review.

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Hewmor breathed deeply, his nostrils flaring under his red clown nose. Fresh air...

Swiveling his painted face to and fro, the clown took a peek at his old neighborhood. He wanted to take it all in... He wanted to see what changes had been made since last he had been there. He wasn't worried about being spotted or recognized. After all, it wasn't very often a man came back after fifty years looking exactly the same as he did the night he left. Odds were, even if he stood there to the break of day, not a soul there would be able to discern his past identity. And he liked that just fine.

Whistling a raunchy tune from a song he'd heard before, Hewmor reviewed his orders from the elder Pilo, Kurt. According to the psychic, Shalice, on his old street lived an old woman taking care of her grandbaby while her son and his wife were away on business. What made this mission so significant was that if left alone, that baby would grow up to be a preacher with enough faith and good works to help usher in a new wave of peace for the world. Being that that the Pilo Family Circus was a place just outside of Hell, and had been orchestrating chaos for centuries, that was a no go.

The kid had to die.

The house loomed over him like a giant. Still whistling, Hewmor peeked at the address and gave a sick grin. This little mission would be extra tasty. From the pockets of his hyena print pants came a small sledgehammer. "Knock knock!" He smashed the knob in one blow. careful to avoid loose metal and splinters, he eased his gloved hands into the hole and pulled the door open slowly. Eight inches out, he sucked in his tall frame and slid through into the house. He eased the door back.

He gave the sledgehammer a twirl and peered about in the darkness of the house. Looked like some redecorating had gone on, but it was still the same old house he remembered. Then that meant the old woman was still in the same room. Time to go to work.

He stepped forward, oversized clown shoes quiet on the floor, and slipped down the hall. The first door on the right he peekd into and saw his target; the baby was sound asleep. The insane clown cooed and shut the door. "I'll be back in just a few little one. Be patient." From the door farthest down the hall to the left he heard snoring. In a silent bound he was before the door. He twisted the handle slowly and peeked in. Grandma was sleeping tight. Soon, she would be sleeping forever.

Throwing caution to the wind, Hewmor threw back his dark red hoodie with the blue polka dots and stood at the edge of the bed. He wanted her to se him when he did it. Might as well give her somethiing to tell her husband when she got to the afterlife. He twirled the sledgehammer again and gripped it tight. "Gonna have some fun now baby." He raised it high and used his other hand to nudge the woman from her rest. She sighed, her pretty black face contorting with wrinkles. He nudged her again, harder this time. Her eyes snapped open. They blinked in confusion, flashed across the room and then finally settled on him.

For a heartbeat the clown and the old woman stared into each others eyes. The old woman's face contorted with disbelief, then fear as she saw the raised weapon. "Holand?"

"Hey mom." He brought down the hammer. On the first blow came a sickening crack. Hewmor felt his mother's skull cave in. The second blow came faster, and shattered her jaw. The third hit her neck. Faster. Faster. Up. Down. He swung again and again and again, moving at an inhuman speed, panting, laughing. The heat of the moment moved him. The room was hot, the blood spurting out was hotter. This was better than drugs. Better than booze. Better than sex.

Panting, sighing, Hewmor stepped back and surveyed his work.

His mother's skull had been reduced to sauce. Chips of bone jutted from the mess, giving it the looks of a macrabe salsa bowl. He slathered his tongue over his teeth. "Ole."

Babykins was next. He stepped out of the room and back across the hall, exchanging the sledgehammer for a nice, long handkerchief. He eased the door open so as not to waken the kid.

Silently, he slipped to the side of the cage and peered down at his objective. His niece. A snort passed from his nose. Looked like his brother still could shoot for real if it meant he and his wife could have a kid when they were both middle aged. Hewmor snapped the handkerchief taut between his hands. Time for work.

The first end of the cloth was tide around the automatic mobile suspened over the crib. The other went around the baby's neck. Satisfied, he flipped the switch. The mobile spun, slowy at first, but it picked up speed, pulling the cloth taut. The baby's end tightened around the neck and the little tyke began to stir. She opened her mouth, but found herself without the air necessary to cry out. The mobile strained under her weight, but remained suspended. The girl was half an inch off the crib bed. One inch. Two. Three.

As the light faded from her eyes, the last thing the baby saw were her uncle's dark brown eyes, swirling with crazed glee.

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Hewmor strode down the dark street, whistling the tune once more. He was headed toward the portable potty that would act as his passage home. As soon as he got back, he would report to Kurt Pilo, slip into the tent, hell, maybe play a couple of rounds of poker with the guys. Then he would drink a whole forty ounce and celebrate a job well done.

He'd save the bottle though. You never knew when you'd have to clock a bitch over the head.

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Hope you enjoyed it. Was it twisted? Did you puke, feel sick at least? Please review and check out that wonderfully frightening book.


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